


Delicate in Every Way But One

by npc_113



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Fade to Black, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, I swear, Light Angst, M/M, No Spoilers, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sassy Jaskier, hes trying, i tried so hard to avoid the angst, medieval roofies, no real sex, oblivious Geralt, sorta? nothing happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/npc_113/pseuds/npc_113
Summary: Someone slips Jaskier something while he’s preforming, Geralt is on cleanup duty.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 1175





	Delicate in Every Way But One

Jaskier pauses in the middle of his song to yawn, arching his back and pointing his elbows out as he stretches before smacking his lips and scratching the back of his head, meandering back to where Geralt sits alone, nursing a pint. 

“Geralt?” He asks, cocking his head and falling almost boneless into the chair across the table. 

Geralt grunts in reply, barely looking up from where he was glaring at the many scratches seared into the surface of the dark oaken table. Still, somehow, Jaskier takes that as encouragement. 

“I think...” another yawn, “I’m going to retire for the night.”

Geralt grunts again and looks back down to the table, back to his thoughts. He’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t miss Jaskier’s lute playing in the background of his thoughts, but Jaskier certainly doesn’t need to know that. 

Still, the bard makes no move to get up. “Get on, then,” Geralt mutters, looking up to Jaskier again. The man looks exhausted, though Geralt didn’t think he worked him that hard today; it was, after all, mostly traveling. The body never lies however, and while there are no bags under his eyes to signify prolonged tiredness, his skin is slightly pale and eyes are drooping only to snap back open a moment later. 

Glancing back at warm blue eyes, Geralt notices red veins coating white, which might be normal if a small amount, but by now the whites of his eyes are more red than anything and Geralt knits his brow in — in confusion, not concern. He doesn’t care what happens to the bard, he barely makes acceptable company. He has simply become a usual appearance. It’d be harder to get used to _not_ having Jaskier around than it is dealing with his constant antics. 

“Jaskier,” he says, leaning forward slightly, trying to get his attention, but Jaskier’s eyes stay unfocused as he continues looking down at the table. Is that what Geralt looked like while he was thinking? So lost and sad and tired. He hoped not. Witchers aren’t meant to look so... weak. 

Another man walks over to their table, young and stringy with a hint of entertainment in his black eyes. Geralt waves a dismissive hand to him; he doesn’t want another drink, but the man doesn’t go away. He passes a glare, one that would make anyone but Jaskier think twice, but again, the man doesn’t budge. 

“What?” He growls, the man only smiles at that, showing crooked teeth that don’t suit his face. He looks like a damn weasel. 

“That your bard?”

Geralt looks from Jaskier to the weasel. His bard? Is he? Sure, Geralt would definitely say no, but this isn’t about him... would Jaskier say yes? He concedes with a grunt. 

Weasel hums, entertained. “He’s quite the performer.” He leans and trails a finger along Jaskier’s jaw. “I thought he was here alone.”

“He’s not,” Geralt responds without thinking. He doesn’t like this man, doesn’t like how he’s touchi— _treating_ , Jaskier. 

“Hmm,” Weasel hums again, looking over to Geralt and then the pendant on his chest. “A Witcher, I presume?”

No response from Geralt, too busy tracking Weasel’s fingers as they continue to rub up and down Jaskier’s jaw. 

“You folk do nearly anything for coin, yes?” His hand moves up to cup Jaskier’s cheek, and for the first time he moves, pressing into the warmth of the hand, eyes never leaving the table. “How much for a night with him? I’ll—“

Geralt slams his hand down on the table, causing the whole tavern to go quiet. Weasel raises his brow, smiling. “Oh?”

Geralt rises, glaring holes into Weasel, and he can see him sweat under the guise of bravery. He walks past him, grabbing him by the collar to drag him out of the tavern. Leaving Jaskier isn’t smart, but this is far more important. 

He tosses him into the street, kicking up a plume of smoke when he hits ground. “Fuck! You bastard! What’d I do?!” He shouts, standing and dusting himself off, only for Geralt to shove him back down.

“What’s wrong with him?” Geralt growls, tossing a thumb back to the entrance of the tavern and leaning over Weasel to fist a hand into the front of his shirt. “Answer me.”

“Why, I don’t know what you’re askin’ of me,” Weasel says innocently, raising his hands.

Geralt snarls and before he can even think the decision through, he’s throwing a fist against Weasel’s stomach, letting go of his shirt in the process. 

Weasel chokes and spits up bile, curling in on himself to hold the place Geralt had hit him. “Gah! What the fuck!?”

Geralt fists his hand into Weasels hair and forces him to look up at him. “What. Did. You. Do. To. Him.” Each word delivered deliberately. Something about this man reached the end of his patience. 

“Fuck! I slipped him a little potion, that’s all! He’s gonna be fine!” Weasel hurries through the explanation as he sees Geralt’s expression only darken. 

“Antidote. Now.”

“There isn’t one!” Geralt raises a fist again. “No, no! Listen to me!” So much for that faux bravery. “It’ll wear off — no damage done! He’s just gonna be…” Weasel trails off as if Geralt is supposed to follow. 

“He’s going to be what?” He asks, although it hardly sounds like a question. 

“...docile,” Weasel replies slowly, as if considering each letter of the word. 

Geralt wants to ask more — what the hell does he mean; docile? — but he doesn’t. Instead he straightens and lands a punishing kick to Weasels head, knocking him out, and drags him to an alley. Not before patting him down for more of whatever the potion he gave Jaskier. Finding nothing, not even an empty vial, he leaves the body and returns to where he left Jaskier. 

He’s just where he left him, blessedly, and Geralt leans into his personal space to wrap an arm under his armpit to support him, placing Jaskier’s own arm across his shoulders. 

They stand — or really, only Geralt stands, dragging a boneless Jaskier behind him — and begin limping to Geralt's room. Geralt doesn’t even consider taking the bard to his own room, he doesn’t know that that potion’s going to do, and he’s taking no risks. Jaskier may be hardheaded, but he’s also very, very fragile. 

“Geralt?” He hears a quiet voice from right next to his ear. He only grunts in response to Jaskiers question. The man's clearly not lucid and there’s no purpose in entertaining drunken words. “Wha’s hap’n?”

Jaskier jerks in Geralt's grip and Geralt has to pause his walking to readjust himself. “Calm down,” he orders and Jaskier immediately sags against him again. 

“Y’sc’red m’,” Jaskier mumbles as he nuzzles his face into Geralt’s shoulder. “D’n’t know wh’re y’w’re. Th’t y’left.”

Jaskier thought Geralt abandoned him? Like _this_? Does he really think so little of him? He takes a calming breath. Jaskier’s not thinking clearly, if he were sober he never would’ve thought that. Right?

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. Much to his disappointment, Jaskier seems to still have a good sense of hearing, as he smiles and pats Geralt on the shoulder with the hand he has draped over Geralt. 

“‘t’s okay, Geralt,” he grins and Geralt’s heart _aches_. 

_Fuck, indeed._

They make it to Geralt’s room and he uses little ceremony as he tosses Jaskier into the bed face first. Jaskier hums and nuzzles into the sheets. He’s still for long enough that Geralt wonders if he’s fallen asleep, but the silence is broken when Jaskier sighs in a high pitch, rolling over onto his back and looking at Geralt, goofy expression still on his face. 

_Fuck fuck fuck._

Geralt’s doomed. 

Geralt looks determinedly away, as far away as he can without actually moving anything other than his head and eyes. Jaskier chuckles at that. “Y’look like a sc’lded child,” he laughs before dropping his head back onto the sheets and sighing again. 

“How do you feel?” Geralt asks, trying to ignore the little skip in his heartbeat. 

_Witcher’s don’t_ feel, _Geralt._

“‘m good, ‘m good,” Jaskier replies. He seems only a little drunk now. Has the potion worn off?

“You’ve drunk a lot.”

“Huh?” Jaskier tries to sit up but falls back onto the bed, not to Geralt’s dislike. Seeing Jaskier spread out on _his_ bed is—

_No. Stop._

“You’re drunk, Jaskier. Don’t be an idiot.”

“No?” Jaskier says, though it’s more of a question. “Had ‘ne drink, though? An adm’rer,” he winks at that and Geralt raises a hand to rub at the tip of his ear which feels like it’ll burn off at any second. Clearly the weasel was this admirer. It’d be so easy to ruin Jaskier’s cocky mood, but… gods, he looks happy, doesn’t he?

Geralt sighs and grabs a pitcher and cup off the side table, pouring a glass of water for Jaskier and holding it up to him. Jaskier raises a brow but makes no move to sit up. “Sit up,” Geralt says, walking closer to Jaskier but the other still doesn’t move. 

“Can’t,” Jaskier grins, but there’s a little wobble in his lips, a little desperation in his eyes. 

Geralt sighs again and rolls his eyes. He sets the water down and joins Jaskier on the bed, pulling the man up and making him lean into Geralt’s shoulder to prop him up so he can take the water again and press the ceramic to Jaskier’s lips. 

He drinks the water like a drowning man would air, finishing the entire pitcher in record time and pulling off each cup with a gasp. Geralt tries to ignore the panting that comes after he finishes each cup. _Tries._

This had always been a problem with Jaskier; how easily he can get Geralt riled up. He hates it, but he doesn’t know how to stop it, so he just accepted that Jaskier’s going to be able to get a rise out of him. This, however, is far worse than any awkward boner he’s popped while they slept so close that he could hear Jaskier’s breath while camping in the woods during a particularly long journey. Well, he can always hear Jaskier breathe, props of being a Witcher, but they’d be so close he wouldn’t even need to focus before picking up the gentle in and out of air from his lungs, so soothing and slow that Geralt had tried to copy the pace himself. He had failed, of course. Even his breathing is too stubborn than to actually listen to Jaskier. 

“More?” Jaskier asks, looking slightly more cognizant but still quite out of it. 

“No more,” Geralt replies, placing the cup back down onto the table. 

Just as the ceramic hit wood, Jaskier started leaning onto Geralt with more of his weight. It’s not enough to push him over — it never will be — but it’s enough to startle him. 

“What?”

“‘t’s cold,” Jaskier mumbles, pressing his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, and Jaskier was not joking. His nose feels like ice against Geralt’s neck. He knows it gets colder when the sun sets, but this is absurd. The potion must’ve slowed down his blood flow as well as everything else. 

“Lay down,” Geralt murmurs, running a hand through Jaskier’s hair unconsciously. Jaskier hums gently and falls backwards. Both of them make the decision to ignore that Geralt had petted Jaskier only a moment before. Or, maybe it was only Geralt who made the decision; Jaskier doesn’t seem lucid enough to actually have noticed. 

Geralt pulls a quilt over him after Jaskier shivers slightly. He moves to leave Jaskier’s bedside — to do what, he doesn’t know, but he can’t stay this close to Jaskier, not when he’s like this. It’s too… tempting. 

But Jaskier grabs his wrist before he can leave. “Stay,” is all Jaskier says.

_Stay._

Can he? He shouldn’t. He _really_ shouldn’t. He…

He sits down on the bed. 

He moves his hand to cup Jaskier’s cheek. 

Jaskier nuzzles his face into his hand. 

Before he can even notice, Geralt is leaning over Jaskier’s head, face only inches from the other’s. 

He has to pull away. 

This isn’t okay. 

“Geralt.”

“Jaskier.”

“Kiss me.”

And Geralt does. 

It’s chaste and gentle, light press of lips to lips. Jaskier closes his eyes, Geralt probably should as well, but he _can’t._ Can’t miss how relieved Jaskier looks. He didn’t even notice how anxious the bard was until the expression disappeared. 

Jaskier isn’t lucid. He probably won’t remember this. Probably doesn’t even _want_ to do this. 

And if this is the only time he gets to do this, he vows to memorize what Jaskier’s face looks like at this distance. 

They pull away, Jaskier breathing gently, Geralt on the verge of panting. 

_This is amazing, this is everything — everything._

“Geralt—“

Great kisses him again, prods Jaskier’s lips with his tongue, presses inside once Jaskier opens his mouth ever-so-slightly. 

Jaskier moans, Geralt feels blood rush downwards. 

_This is too good to be true._

Jaskier turns his face away, ending the kiss abruptly. 

“Geralt, wait.”

 _This is wrong._

“Hey, Geralt.” Jaskier presses a hand to his face, looking into his eyes. “Hey, listen to me.”

_Shit. Shit, why did he do that? Oh no, no no no._

“Geralt!” 

Geralt snaps out of his thoughts, looking back at Jaskier with an intensity he didn’t even realize he could look at someone with. 

He drops his head to Jaskier’s chest, takes a breath, and stands up. “I’ll leave.”

“Geralt, no!” Jaskier sits up, panicked, but falls back to the bed with a pained exhale. 

Geralt pauses. Shakes his head. “I’ll stay in your room.”

“Geralt, wait! Stop!”

Geralt doesn’t stop.

Until he hears a thump from behind him. 

He spins around to see Jaskier on the ground, rubbing his knee and hissing inwards. He curses and throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut. He looks fine enough, so Geralt turns to leave again, but Jaskier speaks. “Geralt, please.” 

His voice cracks at the ‘please’, he sounds moments away from tears. So of course he would stop. Not because he’s hoping for something. No, of course not. He’s just worried that Jaskier will do something he’ll regret. 

“Geralt, turn around. Please.”

So of course he does. 

He’s weak to Jaskier, after all. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt. Please don’t leave. I won’t—” he takes a stuttering breath. “I won’t do it again. So, please.”

Geralt furrows his brow. Does… does Jaskier think he’s going to leave because of _him?_

“I’m so sorry. This was— I thought—” His voice cracks and the moisture in Jaskier’s eyes overflows onto his cheeks. 

“Jaskier, stop.”

Jaskier chokes at Geralt’s voice, as if he forgot he was even there. He takes a tentative step forward and Jaskier seems to cringe as he presses his back to the frame of Geralt’s bed. It makes Geralt hesitate even more, but Jaskier says nothing, so Geralt continues forward until he’s kneeling in front of a tearful Jaskier. 

Jaskier’s still babbling to himself, wringing his hands and sniffing wetly. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me…” he continues, even as Geralt presses a hand to his shoulder. 

He stops abruptly when Geralt puts his other hand to his mouth. “Enough.”

Jaskier squeaks, jumping a noticeable inch. 

Geralt leans forward again, pressing a kiss to the hand against Jaskier’s mouth. 

Jaskier rips Geralt’s hand away and throws himself onto Geralt, pushing him from his knees to his behind, straddling him. 

“Geralt—Geralt—Geralt—“ He whispers Geralt’s name between each quick peck of lips, until Geralt has enough of it and grabs the back of Jaskier’s head, forcing him to prolong the kiss for enough time for Geralt to press his tongue into his mouth again. He tastes lightly of mead but there a tang of something sweet as he tongues at Jaskier’s teeth. 

_Oh. Oh wow._

Jaskier’s tears are on Geralt’s cheeks now, and Geralt notices belatedly that Jaskier is still crying, hiccuping into the kiss. 

Geralt pulls away and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Why?” He asks, thumbing away a stray tear from Jaskier’s cheek. _Why are you still crying?_

He doesn’t need to complete the question. 

Jaskier smiles, small and somewhat nervous. “I’m happy, you idiot,” he huffs before going back to the kiss, thrusting his hips softly in Geralt’s lap. 

Geralt holds each of Jaskier’s thighs and stands up, carrying Jaskier with him before dropping him back onto the bed. He keeps Jaskier in his lap, but this time the bard is laying on his back with his hips propped up on Geralt’s folded legs. 

Jaskier continues chanting Geralt’s name, thrusting up into the air and back onto Geralt’s waiting cock. 

Geralt huffs before pressing down on the growing bulge between Jaskier’s legs, giving him some friction to rub on, which only spurs on Jaskier’s panting. 

“Hey now,” Geralt mutters, leaning over Jaskier to lick a wet line from his collar to his ear before blowing gently into it. “Don’t wear your voice out too quickly.”

That earns a chuckle from Jaskier, who only slows his thrusting. “Ha ha,” he says sarcastically. “Very funny. You and I both — ah — both know how strong my — shit, Geralt — my vocal cords are.”

Geralt grins wickedly. _We’ll see about that._

He thrusts his own hips forward, drawing a shocked gasp from Jaskier. He puts his arms under Jaskier’s knees and pulls him up enough to pull his trousers and underpants down. Again, Jaskier squeaks as his cock is freed from the cloth, though Geralt is quick to hide it with a hand, pulling him off quickly. 

“Geralt, Geralt — faster, faster, _please.”_

And of course, Geralt complies. 

Jaskier stills, then, brow furrowing. 

“What?” Geralt asks, confused. Did he do something wrong?

“You too.”

Geralt doesn’t blush. He does _not_ blush. 

And he _absolutely does not_ whimper when Jaskier pulls the front of his trousers down to free his throbbing cock. 

Geralt was going to say something — what, he doesn’t know — but before he has the opportunity, Jaskier is shoving his fingers into his mouth, thrusting the digits around his tongue before pulling them out and moving them behind himself. Geralt puts a hand on the arm and follows it down to his wrist, rubbing his hand as he pumps his fingers inside of himself, moaning and twisting his legs around Geralt. 

“Oh, Geralt, Geralt, I want you… so, so much. Oh, gods,” Jaskier moans loudly and Geralt claims his mouth again, twisting their tongues together. 

Jaskier pats Geralt’s arm and they both break the kiss. 

Jaskier leans forward, lips a breath away from Geralt’s ear. 

“I want you to fuck me, Geralt.”

And that’s certainly no skin off Geralt’s back. 

* * *

“Wow,” Jaskier sighs as they lay next to each other on their backs, staring at the ceiling of the inn. 

_Wow, indeed._

“When did the potion wear off?” He says, instead. 

Jaskier chuckles. “After the first kiss.”

“Just like the stories,” Geralt says to the ceiling and he hears Jaskier snort. 

“Except I’m not a princess, you’re not a prince, and I wasn’t under a spell.”

Geralt laughs. “Oh, who says I’m not a prince. I think I was quite princely only a few moments ago.”

“I’m afraid I want paying close enough attention.” Geralt looks over to Jaskier only to see a conniving grin on his face. “You might need to do it again.”

_Again._

“Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt is an asshole and better make up with Jaskier in season 2 or I might have to intervene.
> 
> Title from the song [Glory and Gore by Lorde](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3XoJ-Q41G3k)
> 
> You can follow my main Tumblr [here](https://npc-113.tumblr.com/) and my writing Tumblr [here](https://npc-113-writes.tumblr.com/) :)


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